


Impossible Images

by black_telephone



Series: We walk on air, Watson [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, First Person Narrative, Freeform, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Possibilites, Pre-Slash, Purple Prose is Purple, Slash, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:45:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/black_telephone/pseuds/black_telephone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We would both be afraid and terrified and I would try to mask my fright as courage as I press my lips upon yours. I would wonder whether I am sweating... whether I smell. But then, slowly, after deliberation your lips would move against mine and it is a revelation. It is absolution. The life I have lived till then would be obliterated in its wake. Because love is not love if it does not destroy you... at least by a small measure. And I would crumble. And you would crumble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impossible Images

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into Sherlock fandom. Apologies in advance.  
> My sister challenged me to write Dragon!lock crack, instead I wrote this. I am sorry, (not sorry).  
> Let me know what you thought about my work.

 

 . 

 . . .

 .

 

_Our hands are separated by an inch._

 

As I look at the faded leathery sofa between the edge of your fingers and mine, I realise the enormity of this... the enormity of _us_.

 

There are a million possibilities bursting forth in that tiny inch between the tip of my fingers and the skin connecting your thumb and forefinger... In that small chasm breathes a thousand worlds...in that tiny space.

 

I could move my finger, just a centimetre and then another and I would be brushing my fingers on that soft fleshy skin on your hand. It would be slow, but purposeful. We have done enough silly things in our lifetime, enough things which had no meaning and which served no purpose. Not anymore. I would brush the tip of my forefinger at the base of your thumb and maybe even scratch my nail against your soft skin and it would be with purpose. It would be with intent. It would be a declaration. It would be a proposal. It would be the gateway to all things that I dream us to be, in my heart and in my soul. It would be _me_ showing _you_ those fragile little dreams that I store in between my breaths, for the fear that that they might blow away with useless words and harsh pants. It would be showing you a pattern as delicate and diaphanous as a snowflake and hoping ( _hoping_ ) that you understand the magnitude of what I have shown you. It would be trust condensed to a single touch. It would be _love in a single caress_.

 

 

And you would smile. You would inch your hand a little bit closer to mine. Just a little bit. And I would inch closer too. And it would take a minute or two but slowly, _slowly_ my hand would be clasping yours as we both pretend to listen to the latest celebrity gossip spewing from the TV. And under the glaring yellow light of crap television, you and I would be christened into _us_. We would both pretend that we do not understand the magnanimity of this singularly beautiful moment. Well, then, tomorrow is a little easier and I would touch your arm casually, and the day after that your arm would brush against mine when we walk side by side and the day after it I will notice the little crease that form around your mouth when you smile ( _really_ _smile_ , not smirk) and I would commit it to my memory. Bit by bit, touch by touch I would fall in love with you... well, fall _more_ in love with you. It would go on in such a manner and we would both pretend to be blind. We would both pretend we don’t feel what we feel. If science cannot quantify the electricity that sparks whenever we are too close yet not close enough, we can pretend it does not exist. It is safer that way... till it isn’t. Till one day we cannot afford our faux ignorance and we cannot expend the energy to play unaware and I would fall into you. I know I would. You are stronger, you would hold on longer. But I, despite all my strength and sensibility cannot hold on and I would tumble... _tumble_... **_tumble_**... into you. And I may kiss you, quite clumsily, on your mouth. Because as sure as I am of this ( _of us_ ), I am unsure too. Our friendship (can we call it that anymore?) is too precious... is too perfect that I would fear there is not room for anything else. And you would fear that anything else would eat up our friendship. We would both be afraid and _terrified_ and I would try to mask my fright as courage as I press my lips upon yours. I would wonder whether I am sweating... whether I smell. But then, slowly, after deliberation your lips would move against mine and it is a revelation. It is absolution. The life I have lived till then would be obliterated in its wake. Because love is not love if it does not destroy you... at least by a small measure. And I would crumble. And you would crumble. We would be little shattered pieces of ourselves from before. Jagged edges that doesn’t quite fit together. But, we are those pieces of jigsaw puzzles and we would be put together again and it would be hard and horrifying to lose so much of ourselves. But we would be gaining too... gaining something unnameable and indefinable and we could call it _love_. But love would be such a gross understatement. This would not love. This would be something more... something more primal... something more base... like gravity. Like electromagnetism. Like entropy. Like forces of nature. But we would call it love anyway, because it would be easier to call it love. Easier to name it. Fast forward to the last years of our life and we would still be together. We would have hurt each other and hurt ourselves and at times it would have seemed a pointless effort.

 

 But everything that has mass _does_ exert gravity. It is in its nature. And it would be in our nature to love and _hold on_. We would gaze at the slowly darkening sky from our household and think of all the things that happened – the progression of events. If anyone asks how we got together, we would both speak of our first kiss. That Kiss. That moment when it became safer for us to acknowledge this force that existed between us that ignore it. We would both speak of the kiss. But we would both be thinking of a much earlier time. A moment, when nothing occurred, per se. No event happened. The axis of Earth didn’t shift. But a moment – when I reached over and touched your hand with my finger and you scooted closer and slowly my hand clasped yours and it took our breath away but we both pretended to not notice it and instead listened to crap telly. We would think of that inconspicuous tiny moment when we didn’t speak, didn’t kiss, didn’t fight, didn’t hurt... yet in that moment we promised ourselves that this would be the only inevitable result. Without breathing a word, we would have vowed to realise all the possibilities that simmer in that non-space between your body and mine.  

 

There is heavy rain falling outside and this day is no different than any other day and this moment is not unique or momentous in any way other than this – this is the moment of infinite possibilities and they all throb and pulse between that single inch separating your hand from mine.

 

I could just move my hand just a little forward and a little to the left and set off _a chain reaction_. A domino effect.

 

I _just_ have to move my hand.

 

_Our hands are separated by an inch._

 

Just an inch.

 

I could move my finger, just a centimetre and then another and I would be brushing my fingers on that soft fleshy skin on your hand. It would be slow, but purposeful. And you would _jerk_ back your hand. You would pretend to _not_ notice that I did it on purpose.

 

You would just stare resolutely at the obtrusive light from the television and pretend to be listening. You would change the channel trying to distract yourself. You would tell yourself that nothing has changed. You would pretend... _pretend_... **_pretend_** that you do not know what I meant or what I feel. You would not look me in the eye. You would look at my face but not for too long, as if I am the sun and I might burn you.

 

You would stand up. Cite some excuse. Walk away.

 

We would still be friends. Because that is what we have always been. We were more. But not anymore.

 

You would _consider_ it. Of course, you would. It would be out of character for you to not consider it. The thought of _us_ would flit through your mind for an hour or so. You would discard it too.

 

I would try to convince myself that it was out of _fear_. I would tell myself that you were _frightened_ that our friendship would fall to pieces and _shatter_... like glass. I would tell myself that it was _fear and concern_ that made you play ignorant at **_that_** moment. I would convince myself that you are right. Our friendship is too precious... too perfect to squander on something trivial and unstable as love.

 

We would go on like nothing happened. That little moment on the sofa when you and I and the infinite possibilities of what we could be were separated by just an inch did not happen.

 

 Deleted.

 

Or at least we would both pretend so.

 

But there is a seed of doubt in your mind. You would tell yourself that the moment when my forefinger brushed ( _deliberately_ , _accidentally_ ) at the base of your thumb was just your imagination... just an accident. It has no significance or importance. Every moment is just like the other.

 

But you would know the truth somewhere in the deep dark corner of your brain where you stuff things that you do not like to think about. You _would_ **_know_** that it was deliberate, _purposeful_. And you would not know what to do with that knowledge.

 

Things would go on as normal in 221B. Nothing would change. Because you do not want anything to change and I have convinced myself that neither do I.

 

But a seed of doubt planted no matter how _deep_ sprouts one day.

 

And things change... when we both wish it wouldn’t.

 

It would start with the little things.

 

The little fights about the unholy state of the flat and the need to clean it up are now laced with passive thorns. Nagging, which bafflingly induced emotions of fondness and affection, is just plain annoying and irritating now. Flamboyant uncooperativeness which was exasperating but quirky turns disrespectful and selfish.

 

The dishes and teacups are not going to clean themselves and for the first time neither of us want to do anything about it.

 

There is a slow growing poison of desperation growing in you and a matching venom of resignation spreading through my veins.

 

Then it would escalate, just slightly.

 

The dates, the girlfriends and the blatant disrespect towards them wedge a gap between us. We would both pretend it is not there... but it is, _it is_.

 

After cases, when we are both full of life and adrenaline and courage and our lungs full of night air of London, I would turn to smile at you, full and uninhibited. And you would smile back tremulously. Every muscle in your face ensconced in doubt and dripping with uncertainty and I would realise quite too late... too late that things have changed. And you would give an awkward smile.

I would realise that I am standing a bit too close to you. You would try not to flinch away. I would step back, _painfully_.

 

 

 I would realise that you were afraid that I might do something stupid because of the adrenaline high... something stupid like kiss you. Then, it would dawn on me that a quiet part of my mind _had_ thought of that... of pressing my lips against yours in an infectious joy. There would be an unusual silence blossoming amidst us. You would pretend that it isn’t awkward and I would pretend the same. Because this as awkward to me as it is to you.

 

But, it a little bit _more painful_ to me. (The word _agonising_ would cross my mind, but I would resolutely not use it).

 

Then the gap widens.

 

 

You would get shot or hurt. I would panic. I would panic like I have never panicked before because it is not just you who are dying but a thousand worlds... a thousand possibilities that would wither away if you were to die.

 

You are a human. Just another human in among the six point five billion humans inhabiting the planet. Yet, you are more. Quite inexplicably, you are more than just a person.

 

You are life and blood and thrum of all things brave. You are a force of nature. You are electromagnetism. You are the gravity that I feel whenever we are too close together yet not close enough. You are a dimension in my life.

 

And the thought of your lack is enough to set my brain on fire.

 

I would _panic_.

 

I would either fuss over you or berate you. I would either love you all the more in a desperate manic way _or_ begin to hate you for the control you have over my happiness (however _unwittingly_ ).

 

A nagging doubt takes up residence in the shadier side of your mind that I would not care this much if I didn’t have romantic inclinations towards you. You would wonder whether it cheapens our friendship (can we call it that anymore?). You would wonder whether I care so much because I am your friend _or_ because I like the way you lick your lips sometimes. You would wonder whether it matters either way.

You would find out that you do not have _all_ the answers.

 

Little by little, you start _doubting_ me.

 

Little by little, I start _resenting_ you.

 

Because love is not _love_ if it does not destroy you... at least by a small measure. And I would crumble. And you would crumble. We would be little shattered pieces of ourselves from before.

 

And we would pretend that we both do not see it.

 

Earlier we were different parts of a single machinery. We used to work together in perfect harmony like a well-oiled machine. Now, we would be rusted. The cog-wheels would screech and moan in an asynchronous squeal. Stick and corrode…

 

But neither of us would dare to point out the obvious.

 

And somehow _that_ would be _more_ painful.

 

The knowledge that nothing remains the same yet the need to pretend that it does remain unchanged.

 

We would both pretend that we do not think of that moment on the sofa. But we would both be thinking of it. A moment, when nothing occurred, per se. No event happened. The axis of Earth didn’t shift. But a moment – when I reached over and touched your hand with my finger and you _jerked_ _away_ as if it stung but we both pretended to not notice it and instead listened to crap telly.

 

And it would _hurt_...

 

 

There is heavy rain falling outside and this day is no different than any other day and this moment is not unique or momentous in any way other than this – this is the moment of infinite possibilities and they all throb and pulse between that single inch separating your hand from mine.

 

I could just move my hand just a little forward and a little to the left and set off _a chain reaction_. A domino effect.

 

I _just_ have to move my hand.

 

_Our hands are separated by an inch._

 

Just an inch.

 

 

As I look at the faded leathery sofa between the edge of your fingers and mine, I realise the enormity of this... the futility of _us_.

 

There are a thousand possibilities singing and thrumming between that small gap that separates you and me. An infinite set of universes enshrined in that tiny space...

 

I could move my finger, _just_ a centimetre and then another and I would be brushing my fingers on that soft fleshy skin on your hand. It would be slow, but purposeful.

 

I **_could_**...

 

Instead, I stare at the television screen with its offensively glaring light and pretend that I am listening to the latest celebrity gossip.

 

It is _easier_ this way.

 

 

.

. . .

.

 

 

 


End file.
